Of Men and Gods
by bananajelly
Summary: You hear the stories. Everybody hears the stories when they're just starting out. Some dismiss them – nothing but urban legends, something hunters tell themselves to sleep better at night, or a horror story for monsters. The brothers Winchester. (outsider POV; a contemplation on a future where the Winchesters have become walking legends)


You hear the stories. Everybody hears the stories when they're just starting out. Some dismiss them – nothing but urban legends, something hunters tell themselves to sleep better at night, or a horror story for monsters. Most, though, aren't sure. There are things that can't be explained by anything short of those so-called urban legends. You were always one of faith, and you think you believe in them. _The ones from which demons run. The ones who cannot be killed._ The brothers Winchester.

It's something you see in the faces of the older hunters. When the name _Winchester_ comes up in roadhouses and shady bars – hushed almost, like it's a summoning word – they're the ones who'll smile. Wry, grizzled smiles that tell you they know something you don't, that they are the keepers of some knowledge beyond your reach. Some of the younger hunters, they laugh. _Ain't no such thing._ But the older ones, well, they tip back the last of their drinks. Wipe at their mouths with the back of their hands. And bark, _boy, don't go running your mouth bout the Winchesters._

There are the ones who say they've seen them, talked to them, even worked with them. It's easy to tell that most of them are lying, going by the fanaticism in their eyes. They are much too young, anyway, and you have a feeling that if Winchesters are real, they have been working alone for a long, long time.

You've always been one to hear too much for your own good. You know the rumors about the figures surrounding the two men. They run on a loop, passed on from hunter to hunter, growing distorted beyond recognition.

People talk about the one who looks like a man, but isn't. From all the sightings you've ever heard of, you know that he wears a trenchcoat and carries the scent of ozone with him. Whether he is a protector, a soldier, a saint, a monster – people can't seem to decide. You wonder about this invisible man. Wonder what he has done to earn a spot in the inner circle.

People talk about a man in South Dakota. Long dead now, but he was once one of their closest contacts. Surly, alcoholic type. His name was Bobby Singer, and he was supposed to have been one of the best in his day. Out of all the rumors, that's the one that makes you less wary of the whole thing. That _someone_ close to Winchesters was full human, made of flesh and blood, and that he went down into the ground just like you will someday. It makes the Winchesters seem that much less mythical, a touch more fallible.

People talk about their father. Anybody who could've raised two boys who turned out the way they did, well… something must've sent him over the edge first. That's when the stories get real muddled. They all seem to include some variant of a slain mother, you notice. Some say she was possessed by a demon, fed the boys on her own blood, and that twisted them up into something not quite human. John Winchester had to take the thing down himself. Some say the mother was a witch, summoning the Winchester boys forth from the pit of the earth, like all things unholy and hunted. Others talk about a fire, say there are even the records to prove it, if you look hard enough – a dark Kansas night when flames filled the air and a woman felt her blood bubbling under her skin. There's an uneasiness that tinges the conversation here. It's the thought of the beginning of something. Revelation. Gospel.

Few people claim to know what their faces look like, but they say they are large men, large enough to tower over most monsters. It's hard to imagine them as human, but that's what you think they are, or at least what they once were. A weathered woman with graying hair laughs when you ask her about them. "Tall is damn right," she says. "And handsome. Those boys were too handsome for their own good, if my memory serves me right." When you press her for more information, she closes right up, the good humor draining away as if there is something dark and painful in that memory of hers.

You wonder about these brothers. They are brothers, that you know for sure, and over time and word of mouth they have somehow become one entity, inseparable. Sam and Dean Winchester. Dean and Sam Winchester. And despite the million different rumors, there is one unwavering truth that flavors all the nervous laughter and knowing looks that emerge at the mention of their name. To try and kill a Winchester, no matter who you are or what you have seen, is stupidity beyond all stupidity. For if you managed to kill one of them, the wrath of the other is a death more certain than the binding of a crossroad demon's kiss, more certain than the sound of your own heartbeat.

The more you hear, the more you need to know. You ask a hunter once – an ancient one, his skin like leather and fingers gnarled – what he thinks about the Winchester brothers.

"Never believed in God in my life," he says in a croaking voice. "But if there's anything to believe in, you can be damn sure it's the Winchesters."


End file.
